Story of My Life
by IShouldBeOverThis
Summary: Sherlock and John must liaise with a variety of law enforcement agencies in America to catch a serial killer.  Humorous crossover-several, but I can't link to all, so none.  Gen.  More description at story.


The crossover of all crossovers-I won't say crack, per se, but definitely meant to be humorous.

**Title:** Story of My Life  
><strong>Characters:<strong> John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, CSI Catherine Willows, CSI Gil Grissom, CSI Nick Stokes, CSI Greg Sanders, Detective Dani Reese, Detective Charlie Crews, Detective Eames, Detective Goren, Dr. Cal Lightman, Dr. Gillian Foster, Ria Torres, Angela Montenegro, Dr. Camille Saroyan, Dr. Temperence "Bones" Brennan, Dr. Jack Hodgins, Special Agent Seeley Booth (and a tiny reference to someone who might be a British DI)  
><strong>Pairing:<strong> John is rejected by a variety of women, none of whom are original to me.  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> 2,304  
><strong>Rating:<strong> G (gen with expressed hetero desire)  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Sherlock is insulted and then does a slightly OOC thing, but you'll understand why. Americans (women in particular) are awesome. You find out a lot about my taste in women, and ellipses and meta jokes abound.  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> None  
><strong>Summary:<strong> John and Sherlock must liaise with a variety of legal agencies in America to catch a serial killer.  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong> If you can't tell, this is a crossover with _CSI_, _Life_, _Law & Order: CI_, _Lie to Me _and _Bones_. Knowledge of each show and its characters is recommended, but not essential (I don't think). I'd had it in mind for a bit and wasn't sure I could pull it off, but after some quick discussions at my LJ, I decided the world was ready. I had far too much fun writing this. Hope you enjoy. Oh, and I love Laurence Fishburn as Dr. Langston, but it made more sense to have Sherlock meet Grissom.

'There are no unattractive women in America,' thought John, not for the first time since they'd begun this case. That one in Las Vegas? Blonde. She had to be what, ten, fifteen years older than he was and she was well-fit. No-nonsense, all-business and still in-control-of-her-own-sexuality, thank you mister.

Not that he'd had a chance, of course, but you have to ask. She'd been very nice. Said, "Aren't you cute?" then swept off to take something to Grissom and Sherlock where they were sitting, heads bent over slides and crime scene photos. The Grissom and Sherlock mutual appreciation society. Grissom knew more about bugs than any human being should (although this guy? Hodges? Hodgins? He came a close second.) You got the feeling that Grissom was trying to _be_ the bug. Hodgins wanted to blow them up in creative ways. He seemed to pretty much want to blow everything up in creative ways.

No, Hodges was the other one. The one that followed Sherlock and Grissom around like a lost puppy. Geek was the term for them. That and swot, didn't they used to call them swots?

Grissom and Sherlock. It got to the point where they were finishing each other's sentences.

"Let's go back to the evidence. The body doesn't lie."

"Have you considered…"

"…why her shirt is more decomposed than her skirt? Yes, let's…"

"…track the larvae? The bugs found on the body could only have come from…"

"…a specialized environment. Not native to Las Vegas?"

"But if it was a specialized environment, say a greenhouse, then our TOD might be wrong!"

"Exactly!"

He'd ended up standing on the sidelines much of the time, occasionally chatting with Stokes and Sanders, Nick and Greg, when they weren't too busy collecting their own evidence. (And OH, how Sherlock had rankled at that—being kept back from the scene, a guest, not a team member.)

"So, Grissom always that inscrutable?" John had asked.

"Oh-ho, yeah," Nick had replied. "He gives new meaning to the word 'enigmatic,' but I'd risk my life for him."

Greg had simply muttered under his breath, "Inscrutable's one word for it…"

Stokes was friendly. They'd shared a couple of beers when Grissom was taking Sherlock on a tour of his 'interesting' collection of serial killer relics. "Your buddy, Sherlock, and what the hell kind of name is Sherlock anyway, he always that condescending?"

"Yeah, condescending's a nice word for it. Arsehole would be another."

Nick laughed, "Must be fun at home, hunh?"

"No, it's not like that we're not—"

Nick held up his hands in a placating gesture, "Hey, hey, man, it's cool."

John sighed, "We're flatmates. It's…expensive to live in London."

THAT had been rampant wherever they went. Put a serious damper on his efforts with the beautiful women.

Like the one in Los Angeles, Dani? My God, she was a stunner, all exotic skin and piles of hair. (That was another thing. What did these women use for hair products? They all looked like they'd just stepped out of a salon even after chasing down criminals. And they could all run after criminals in the highest heels.)

She'd kind of gaped at him when he'd asked her out for a drink. The detectives were off doing what Detective Crews called meditating and Sherlock called thinking even though they both looked about the same while they did it, whatever it was, laying on their backs, eyes shut for _hours_. They had similar skin coloring when they were lying there all pale and dead looking. That was a bit odd since Crews was ginger. They even sounded a bit alike, which was also strange because Crews was American.

"But I thought you, and he…"

"No, no, just flatmates and…colleagues."

To his surprise she'd agreed to go out with him, but it turned out it was mainly to talk about how weird Charlie was.

"…I mean he lays down NEXT to the bodies! How weird is that? Your guy ever do that?"

"Well, yes, actually, but it's to really observe."

"Charlie does it to 'feel' the murder, or somethin'. I don't know. I've never had a partner like him. To tell you the truth, I was afraid to have him as a partner. He was in jail, you know."

"Really? For what? I didn't think you could become a policeman with a criminal record."

"He was innocent. Got a huge settlement, doesn't have to do this at all, but _wants_ to."

"Yeah, that's Sherlock too."

"For the justice."

"That's not Sherlock at all."

"But, you know what?"

"What?" John asked a little blurrily. He was well into his fourth Corona of the evening.

"Now… Now I'd trust Charlie with my life. And he never judges me. Some people would. I had some troubles…"

"Yeah, Sherlock too. Never judges me, I mean. And he had some troubles."

They'd looked at each other for a moment, and John was fairly certain they were talking about the same thing, but then they'd both gotten texts from their respective geniuses and that was the end of that.

The one in New York, Detective Eames, she hadn't been stunning, but she'd been attractive and nice. She reminded him a bit of DC Havers with whom he'd had a fairly wild weekend while her boss and Sherlock had out poshed each other.

He thought he might have had a chance there. They'd even gotten to dinner, but again talk had turned to the madmen (and Detective Goren, well, he made Sherlock look sane by comparison. That was something to tell Lestrade when he got home).

"Does he just go off on some idea, disappear without telling you what he's thinking?"

"Always."

"And I bet you follow him just to make sure he doesn't accidently die while he's stuck in his own head."

"Of course."

"I've nearly lost my job for him time and again," she went on.

"I've given up on keeping a job."

"Sometimes I think that Robbie would gladly die if it meant that he could prove that he was smart, that he'd solved it."

"Sherlock too!"

"But he knows that I'll always have his back. You have to. They're like children who can't be allowed out by themselves."

"Yeah, I'll always have Sherlock's back too."

And then they'd gone to bail Sherlock and Detective Goren out of jail.

Goren and Sherlock had NOT liked each other. Not after Sherlock deduced that Goren's mother was a schizophrenic—something to do with where he kept his wallet, badge and gun—and Goren had broken down Sherlock's neurosis one by one, from his feelings of alienation coupled with a serious sense of superiority and entitlement, to his relationship with an equally intelligent but more successful sibling. Equally disconcerting was watching Goren's physical tics, tilting his head over and practically bending sideways. John decided he would never mock Sherlock's dramatic flounces ever again. And when did these people, people like Grissom, Goren and Sherlock, find the _time_ to learn all this esoteric stuff?

They had both stomped off in wounded huffs like children who didn't want to play anymore.

At least that had gone better than their time with Dr. Cal Lightman at the Lightman institute.

At first John had thought it would be easier. After all, Lightman was British.

He should have known better.

Lightman had some odd physical tics too. Despite being as short as John, a good five inches shorter than Sherlock, he somehow managed to look _down_ on him. And he sort of danced at you, head tilted, like he was getting ready to spar. It was a contrast to Sherlock's stillness. Lightman looked like a terrier-bulldog-mix challenging a twitchy tiger.

"Yeah, do us a favor. Don't try and out play me, Love. You can't win. See, you're like an open book, you. That little quirk of the mouth. Might think it's you thinking your cleverer 'n me, but really, shows you're nervous. Why you're nervous, now that's the interestin' bit. Not used to bein' challenged much, yeah? Come on, try _harder_. I know you can do it. Natural you. Could a bin on the stage. Might fool the masses, but you're outa practice, Mate. LAZY.

"Torres, come and give us your street read."

"Former addict—see the way his eyes are going in and out—thinking of how the…coke would help right now."

"Ooo, touched a nerve 'ave we?" Lightman went on, bouncing in and out of Sherlock's space. (John wondered how Sherlock liked it when someone else did it.) "Gettin' angry. Losin' that cool control. Emotions now, readin' emotions, not your fing? Nah, you're all about the inanimate objects. Don't challenge you. Don't try to make you doubt yerself. Distant father? Mummy who praised you, but didn't understan? Fings get past you if they're messy human emotion. Things like love. Right, Love?

Which is when Sherlock punched him in the eye.

Strangely Lightman thought this hilarious. Seemed to be used to it.

Gillian, Doctor Foster, on the other hand was lovely while she was cleaning Sherlock's split lip from where Lightman had head-butted him.

"You have to ignore Cal when he's like that. He loves to find people's weaknesses, even friends. You should see what he does to us. You're really one of the best I've ever seen. When you were talking to the suspect in the box, you gave nothing away."

She was just great. Beautiful, kind, funny and smart, but not in a superior way. She'd even seemed flattered when he'd asked her to dinner. It hadn't happened of course. Sherlock refused to go on with Lightman saying that what he did was pseudo-science at best, guessing at worst.

Well, that and the fact that Torres (John hadn't even tried with Torres, beautiful as she was, way too scary) cornered him in the hall and said that if he did anything to hurt Gillian she'd see that he regretted it. For a long time.

And here they were, liaising with the FBI and the Jeffersonian Institute. How were these women so brilliant and so beautiful? When did they have time?

First there was Angela. Like Dani, she was multi-ethnic, jaw-droppingly beautiful. At least he hadn't put his foot in it there and tried something because Hodgins (he of the exploding bugs) made it pretty clear that she was taken. She was fun though. She wasn't a scientist, but had an artist's grasp of anatomy and had made him feel a bit more useful by consulting him when she was doing facial reconstruction. Or she was just being nice?

"Sweetie…" she'd said as he was leaving her office.

"Yes?"

"Oh, nothing…I was just thinking that if I hadn't promised Hodgins that I wouldn't sleep with other people, you seem like you'd be fun."

Oh, great. Rotten timing.

The technology here was amazing. That three-D thing she had to do the reconstruction? Straight out of science fiction. What Lestrade and team would make of that. Anderson might actually be able to do his job with this kind of budget and equipment.

Dr. Camille Saroyan had the finest figure he'd ever seen (although how she worked in those skin-tight dresses and managed not to ever stain them was beyond him. He didn't work with decomposing flesh—much—but he still came home with mysterious things on his sleeves. Maybe that was why she wore sleeveless dresses.) He'd asked if she was busy. She'd said, "Oh? Oh! I mean, oh, um, no. I mean, yes. Yes, very busy. Very busy right now, for a while, the foreseeable future," nodded sharply, turned and walked off. Well, the view was nice anyway.

Then there was Doctor Temperance "Bones" Brennan. Beautiful and staggeringly intelligent; he hoped that she and Sherlock had lots of beautiful, bouncing baby brains together. Baby brains who had no idea how jokes worked.

He'd known she was out of his league when she'd greeted Sherlock, "Mr. Holmes, you have the most pronounced zygomatic bones I've ever seen. Coupled with the length of your cranium and the angle of your mandible, you have an unusual collection of human osteological traits. Would you mind if I took some measurements?"

Followed up by, "I believe that you and I should have sex. Given my beauty and your handsomeness, as well as our mutual superior intelligence, we would have excellent off-spring, but even without reproducing, you seem quite active, as am I and the sex would be vigorous and pleasurable. But I'll warn you, I have a very healthy libido."

Sherlock had actually _**smiled**__,_ he smiled. Fortunately both Agent Booth and John had grabbed the elbows of their respective geniuses or Bones might have actually taken Sherlock back to her office then and there.

Agent Booth was great. He'd taken John to the FBI shooting range while Sherlock went with Bones to the body-farm. Booth assured John that it was really, really as bad as it sounded. They'd compared war experiences, talked about friends they'd lost, friends who'd gone mad, and handled some really big guns.

At last the case was solved between the Las Vegas CSI team's work on the forensic evidence on the new bodies, the Jeffersonian's team's work on the older bodies, Detectives Goren and Eames mapping of the serial-killer's patterns and MO, Detectives Crews and Reeces work on how the victims were selected and even (Sherlock admitted grudgingly) the Lightman Group's work on breaking down the killer once he'd been identified, plus, of course, Sherlock's attention to detail which had alerted everyone that it was a serial killer at work in the first place, despite the murders spanning three continents, and Sherlock and John could finally go home.

As they sat in Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport, John looked around at the other travelers, "The women in America are certainly beautiful."

Sherlock, immersed in catching up on the crimes of London, said, "Really? I hadn't noticed."


End file.
